i am living up
to my own sound
every early
morning,
i keep a record
of all these:
moaning and waning
in this overcrowding
of thoughts and
fears and aspirations
in all the pages of
my mind
my tongue keeps on
wriggling.
my book of life shall
be filled
upon my leaving.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem